


Little by Little

by JinkyO



Series: Take My Love In Really Small Doses [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemas, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Romance, Sex Toys, Sock Garters, Translation Available, Voice Kink, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Mr. Reese?"<br/>"Trying to get rid of me, Finch?"<br/>"No, I thought we might try something different today. If you're interested?"<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation by 破团团 available here: [http://www.mtslash.net/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=157472](http://www.mtslash.net/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=157472) \- Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter features a self-administered enema. If that squicks you, please feel free to skip past the parts of the story between the two marked section breaks:
> 
> _________  
> _________

The weather had grown milder over the past few weeks, enough so that they walked to work that morning. John edged past the construction barricade surrounding the library, eased open the heavy doorway and slipped inside, with Bear close on his heels. As they walked through the scattered books littering the dilapidated library lobby to the base of the staircase, he glanced down at the dog. Bear looked back, his ears pricking up as he set his paws on the wide marble curtail step. John plucked open his jacket then dropped his hand to his side to count them down–

One.  
Two.  
Go!

Up the stairs they raced, John's long legs giving him an advantage at the start until Bear found his stride and sped past him to cross the top landing first. The Malinois skittered to a stop, and turned back to watch the tall man take the last step up. Panting and his tail wagging, he nudged his rump against John's leg then raced forward to the inner sanctum of the office. Rounding the corner, John was met with the sight of Bear, relaxed against Finch's leg, his head resting on the older man's thigh. On the other side of the desk sat a large, roughly two foot by two, plain brown paper wrapped box.

“Braaf, Bear,” Finch brushed his hand over the dog's head. “Good boy, now af liggen, I've got work to do,” he said, patting Bear's head and sending him to lay down on his doggie bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Reese.”

“No consolation love for me?” John asked, eyeing the box as he walked over to the desk.

Finch pursed his lips and swiveled in his chair back to his computer. “We have a new number.”

It was just that easy for him, John thought. He leaned over the back of Finch's chair, the mysterious box forgotten for the moment, as he looked over the monitors. Here, in this space, Finch and Reese had a job to do. Today, that job was a cab driver named Fermin Ordoñez and the job didn't care that it had been nearly a week since he'd last been with Finch, or that, standing at this angle, John was able to make out the faint white scars that he knew began at Finch's lower back and extended up his spine to his neck, just visible along the fold of his shirt collar. Or, that from this proximity, John could tell which of his many safe houses Finch had passed the night, based on his perfume choice of the day: the peppery, orange blossom scent of the 1872 that Finch kept at his midtown apartment, and not the cardamom and cocoa Borneo 1834 that sat on the closet shelves in most of his other bolt holes. Still scanning the information on the screen, John inclined his head forward a fraction and inhaled. In this space, the job didn't care that, after close to a month of near daily, intimate contact, John had learned the fine difference between a perfume and cologne.

“So far I've found nothing remarkable about our Mr. Ordoñez,” Finch said as he pulled up another screen. “Which means we'll have to get our information the old fashioned way.”

“We?”

“We.” Finch rotated his chair slightly to face John. “You've... suggested that it's time for me to get back in the field. And, as it happens, I have a particular skill for riding in the back of hired cars.”

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

By the end of the night, Finch had ridden in cars and incited a riot in a bar. All in all, a success as far as John was concerned. They hitched a ride back to the general area of John's loft before sending Fermin home with instructions to talk to Joss in the morning.

“You did a good job back there,” John said after a while as he, Finch, and Bear took the long way home.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” Finch slowed his pace. “I was expecting your, _Don't walk into danger without me,_ lecture.”

John shrugged. “Tonight was a special case.”

They rounded the corner to cut through the park in front of John's building. “Because you have Detective Fusco working on another of your side projects?”

“Lionel's working on a few side projects. Not all of them are mine.” John said flatly as he fished out his key, unlocked the front door and ushered Finch and Bear inside.

“You sound concerned?”

“I'm not,” John answered, his eyes focused ahead on the closing elevator doors. “Lionel can handle himself. Just like you did tonight facing down that Estonian gang.” John checked his door before unlocking it and shepherding Harold inside. “It's all asset management.”

“So now I'm your asset?”

John smiled. “Always, Finch.”

They had all done the job well tonight, they had saved Fermin Ordoñez.

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

Harold, always a light sleeper, woke first. John rolled himself into the warm spot, breathing in the faint scent of citrus and spice Harold left behind. He slipped his arm under Harold's pillow and listened to the muffled sound of the shower. They had both been too tired for anything more than sleep last night, but the sleep was enough to take the edge off. John had no doubts about his ability to do the work. Still, knowing that Harold would be waiting at the library, or one of the many safe houses he kept scattered around the city, was an added incentive, along with the promise of a warm touch, a welcome hand job, or the security of sleep. Since that afternoon in the library weeks ago, John had come to treasure their time alone.

And then they worked the Drake's numbers.

After expecting to go home together, Harold had sent him away instead.

Harold worked on as if nothing was wrong. John was left to puzzle. Maybe it had become too much for Harold? Was he having second thoughts now, after they'd both acknowledged that this new facet of their partnership would take some adjustment? They'd taken their time from day one. If Harold needed to go even slower, John could wait.

The shower stopped. John angled himself to watch Harold emerge, wrapped in his soft cashmere robe and lined slippers. In the hazy predawn light spilling through the high windows, Harold shuffled out to the open kitchen. John couldn't see him now but he could hear the clap of the cabinets open and close, the squeak of the faucet filter, and steady stream of water. He closed his eyes and reveled in Harold's uneven footfalls over the hardwood as he put the kettle on, set his morning toast and filled Bear's dry food bowl. John stretched under the blankets. Coffee beans in the grinder. National news on the radio.

The sun was up now and the sounds of traffic drifted into the loft with the morning light.

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

The brown wrapped package was gone when John came in to the Library after his morning run. There was no waiting number. They worked in companionable silence for the rest of the morning.

“I don't think we're getting anything today,” Finch said after lunch. Sometimes it happened like that, they'd get a stretch of calm before the Machine sent them a new number. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off?”

John continued stripping the P226 in his hands. “Trying to get rid of me? It's not my birthday, as you know.”

“I'm aware.” Finch pulled his fingers off the keyboard and swiveled around to face John. “I thought we might try something different today. If you're interested?”

John laid the recoil spring down. “What if a number comes in?”

“Detectives Carter and Fusco are eminently qualified to handle anything that may come up.”

“Different, how?” John asked, tilting his body forward.

“So you _are_ interested?”

“What happened to your special delivery box?” John asked, the dismantled gun forgotten.

“Aren't you observant,” Finch murmured, pulling a key from his desk drawer and holding it out. “Sutton Place.”

John's finger's brushed over the back of Finch's hand as he took the key.

Finch smiled. “You'll find everything you need waiting. And,” he paused for moment, his cheeks pinkening a bit. “I'll apologize in advance if my preparations seem... excessive. We won't need to undergo this level of detail every time, but it has been my experience that some planning can make the experience more pleasurable.”

The condo key cut into John's clenched hand. He swallowed. Somewhere in this carefully crafted explanation of preparation, planning, and pleasure, Finch was trying to tell him something important. Something to do with the anonymous, missing box and the top floor condo with its heavy door and thick walls. Something to do with past experience. Something to do with Finch knowing exactly what he liked.

“Go,” Finch said before returning to his code. “I'll take care of Bear and meet you shortly.”

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

John took a cab. Acknowledged the doorman with a nod as he strode up the walk and into the lobby, onto the elevator, jabbing the penthouse pass code with his finger and allowing the upward thrust to counter his shaky knees. He had ideas, of course. Vivid ideas about preparation, planning, and pleasure that went far beyond anything Harold had given him so far.

Harold liked touching, much more than John would have guessed. To touch and be touched. He liked kissing more than being kissed. Harold liked being sucked off and John loved the sharp tug of his hair in Harold's hand. Finally, Harold liked to fall asleep against him, using John's body as a cushion and brace. And, while all highly pleasurable, not a single one of these things required preparation or planning.

John let himself into the empty apartment. Borneo 1834 and morning rugelach from Andre's. He swept the rooms, one by one, making a deliberate path through to the master bedroom. The last time he was in this bedroom was the first time he'd been invited to Sutton Place, the day they saved Jeremy Walker.

Harold gave him the address in his ear while John drove Jeremy to the airport. It was late afternoon by the time he made it to Sutton Place. Harold was waiting.

“ _Undress.”_

And John did.

And Harold didn't.

He brought John off with his hands and his excruciatingly detailed description of how John looked through Harold's eyes: upper back pressed down to the bed and hips angled up, heels planted in the thick comforter and long legs splayed open, naked and needy. Afterward, after he charmed and wheedled and finally begged, Harold let him unbutton the fine wool trousers and slip his cock from his boxers and into John's mouth.

That was the first time. John shouldered out of his jacket as he walked into the now quiet room. The bed, made up with crisp precision and piled with pillows, dominated the room and there, in the middle, sat the box.

He drew his knife from his pocket clip and flicked it open. Perched on the edge of the bed, he pulled the box closer then sank the sharp blade into a brown taped seam and cut the paper wrapping open. The shipping box offered no clues. Carefully, he unsealed the cardboard and pulled out the black box inside. John laid his knife down and pried open the lid.

Preparations.

He studied the contents for a moment. The items on top were easily recognizable and revealed hints of the other objects, all wrapped in clear plastic, packed underneath. John gathered the discarded wrapping and the shipping box, and made a clear space on the bed to unpack.

An empty squeeze bottle that he guessed could hold a cup of liquid, capped with a long flexible red tip.  
Three separate bottles of lubricant: a water-based gel, and two silicone-based options. No hand lotion, John noted with a smirk.  
One twelve-pack of ultra thin polyisoprene condoms and another dozen of lambskin He laid the two bags out alongside the lube and enema.  
Next was a three-piece set of clear, purple plugs, graduating in size from slender and small, to the thick, flared bulb of the largest. John traced the cool rubber with his fingertips before setting the package down. After that came a set of flexible rings, in the same clear purple silicon as the plugs.

He pulled the last two items out and pushed the box aside. Poking his fingernail through the plastic, he tore away the wrapping and watched, with a growing smile, as the compressed object inside slowly expanded and unfolded into a firm, ramp shaped pillow. The second bundle, once released, revealed its form as a smaller, but equally firm, wedge. The two foam cushions fit and gripped together perfectly, creating a stable base for supporting, lifting, and positioning the human body.

 

 **_________**  
**_________**

 

The box was a well planned collection of what Harold liked and what he thought John might enjoy too. Before Harold, it had been a very long time since anyone had bothered considering what he might like. John choked back a groan. Collecting the enema bottle and a silicone lube, John set off for the bath. He assumed this was the reason Harold had sent him ahead alone.

The bathroom was as oversized as the bedroom: a large, stepped soaking tub, walk-in shower with glass doors, a double sink black granite vanity, and walled nook housing the toilet and bidet. Thick black towels sat folded on the counter top, a disposable shave kit laid out next to them.

John stripped. He lined the tiled shower with two of the larger towels and left an extra near the glass door. He knew that there was a water filter on the kitchen sink but for his purposes, warm tap water would do. While John waited for the water to heat, he uncapped the lube. It was unscented and ridiculously slick between his fingertips. He approved.

John filled the bottle then tipped it down to squeeze out a bit of the hot water, clearing the air and testing the temperature. Satisfied that the rinse would cool a bit as he prepared himself, John gathered his supplies and entered the shower stall, flicking on the overhead heat lamp as he stepped inside.

His knees protested as he knelt down then stretched out on his left side. Next time he'd use the bed because next time he'd have help.

He bent his right knee into his chest and readjusted his body over the tiles. Deftly, he uncapped the lube and slicked his fingers, lubing the red rubber nozzle first before reaching back to prep his entrance with a quick, clinical efficiency. The bottle was warm in his hand and the water comfortable against his inner wrist. John took a few deep, calming, breaths then slowly inserted the nozzle. His inner muscles clamped tight against the unpracticed intrusion and John gave himself a moment to relax before he squeezed the bottle.

Slowly the water flowed, filling his rectum, pressuring against his nerve endings from the inside. It was a small dosage, for cleaning purposes only, but as the bottle slowly emptied and he eased the tubing out, clenching down tightly to keep the water inside, John could imagine taking much more. He made a mental note to pass that on to Harold later.

He lay on his side for a few minutes, rolled onto his back when that became uncomfortable. This wasn't an unpleasant sensation, nor unfamiliar to him. John had spent more than enough time under medical care in his past, and yet he'd never taken a cleanse for his own pleasure. During his time with the CIA, Kara was completely one-minded during her pegging sessions, and on the job, the marks never complained.

John rolled to his right side and massaged out his light abdominal cramping. The water was cooling now and his body strained for release. Carefully he stood, using the shower wall for support as he hobbled to the toilet. He rested his head back against the cool tiles and exhaled loudly as he voided.

After some time he felt confident enough to clean upand return to the main bath to finish his preparations: a quick shower, a close shave, a careful scissor trim to the dark hair at the base of his cock, toe and fingernails clipped neat.

Again, John was reminded just what Harold intended for them today. He had, he realized, given in to the idea that the sex, while very satisfying as-was, would be forever confined to hands, mouths, and heart. But today there would be fucking. The mental image coalesced behind John's eyelids and his cock jerked to life.

He spent a few more minutes on the toilet before cleaning everything up and taking a final, long hot shower. He had been alone in the apartment for close to two hours now.

 **_________**  
**_________**

 

Two dressing gowns hung on the back of the linen closet and he chose the longer one, deep purple with intricate gold embroidery. The cashmere tickled over his flushed skin as he returned to the bedroom to collect the toys, unwrap and clean them, and lay them out on the nightstand.

The ramp and wedge combo, he eyed for a few minutes, walked around the bed, visualizing how it could be used. He tried the most obvious position first, climbing onto the bed, the wide end of the ramp facing him and slanting down and away. The smaller wedge was fitted towards the bottom of the slope, forming a straight arm rest. John draped himself, face first, over the larger pillow and felt the stable angle at which the cushion held him. Inching back, his cock dragging with the soft fabric of his robe, his ass jutting high in the air.

“Fuck,” he gasped, shifting his legs apart, estimating how much room Harold would need. Or maybe Harold didn't want that at all, maybe... John closed his legs together tight, braced his knees against the flat of the ramp, and pushed the smaller wedge away, so that he could lean forward and rest his cheek against the sheets.

John considered calling Harold and letting him know he was ready, he was hard, he was waiting. He scanned the room again, maybe Harold was watching and already knew.

John's phone sat, dark, next to his gun on the dresser. Harold would get there when he got there, John decided. Carefully, he peeled himself off the cushion. Deep, relaxing breaths as he busied his hands with moving the sex pillows to the far side of the bed. Slowly, he fingered loose the robe belt and pulled it off, not bothering to stifled his raspy groans as the fabric kissed against his skin. He shifted the extra pillows out of the way, drew back the comforter, and slid naked under the sheet.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The winter sun was beginning to set when John woke. Beyond the quiet bedroom he heard the front door close. The rattle and beep of locks, then Harold's distinctive footsteps. John rolled onto his back, his body outlined under the charcoal colored cotton sheet.

“You look rested,” Harold said as he entered the room. He glanced down at the supplies arrayed beside the bed. “I take it you made good use of your afternoon?”

“I did. And you?” John pushed himself up to rest against the headboard and appreciate the view of Harold walking to the closets on the other side of the bedroom. “You took your time.”

“Did I?” Harold murmured. He peeled out of his jacket. “I would have thought I left you with more than enough to keep yourself occupied,” he said as he hung his jacket before unbuttoning his vest, his cuff links glinting in the dying light.

“I waited.” A torturous truth.

“Why?”

John pulled the sheet back and swung himself up and off the bed to help Harold out of his vest. “I've already waited five days, what's a few more hours?”

“That sounds like a terrible distraction, and, if I'm remembering correctly, distractions are bad for both of us.”

John snorted. “Most of what I tell you is straight out of my,  _Do as I say, not as I do_ , playbook.” He dropped the vest down on the back of a nearby chair then went to work on Harold's shirt, beginning with the heavy cuff links first before tugging the starched, purple fabric free from Harold's waistband. John worked from the bottom up and carefully pulled each mother-of-pearl button through its hand-stitched hole, brushing his lips over Harold's ears, cheeks, and jaw as he went.

“Asset management?” Harold asked, tugging his tie loose. John caught the silk Windsor knot in hand and reeled Harold in slowly for a kiss, coaxing the older man's mouth open and dipping his tongue inside. John closed his eyes and focused on the inarticulate noises Harold was making, the light scratch of Harold's wool pants against his bare skin, the way Harold smelled like his soap after the night spent at his loft, and how soft and warm the shirt was as he fingered the tie knot free and pulled the silk away.

“Are we off the clock now?” John asked, stepping behind Harold in order to pull the shirt off. He drew Harold back, the older man's cotton undershirt even warmer against his naked skin. John circled his arms around, dragging both palms down the front of Harold's body **,** drawing a shuddered moan from his man as he glided the heels of his palms over hard nipples, and down over Harold's soft belly, and lower, nimble fingers unbuttoning Harold's wool trousers.

Harold melted back against John. “Of course.”

John slipped his hand down the open fly front and cupped Harold's cock gently through his shorts for a moment, resting his head on Harold's shoulder. “Why tonight? And why did you disappear last week?” John turned his head, burying his face against Harold's neck.

“Ah,” Harold said, softly.He ran his hands down John's forearms, over the back of his hands, tangling their fingers together and squeezing. “I suppose it's harder to recognize a second chance when you're in the midst of it. I needed some distance.”

“And then you saw it?” John asked, molding his body around Harold's back.

“I never said this would be easy, John.”

John flashed a radiant smile. Nothing about Harold was easy, but John could be patient when it suited him. He pressed a kiss to Harold's shoulder then stepped around to finish undressing him, dropping down to his knees. Shoes and the careful balance of pulling the pants off, and then John's smile grew wide. He fingered the back of Harold's ankles, over the fine socks and hard bone, skimming up to cup hard muscled calves, teasing the soft skin behind Harold's knees and dragging his fingertips over the leather and elastic fittings of Harold's sock garters. John deftly unhooked the loop and button stay, snapped open the brass adjusting clip, and pulled one garter free, then the other.

“Very good,” Harold whispered as he ran his hand over John's bowed head, easing his trembling fingers through John's short hair and tightening, guiding him to stand.

It didn't take much, where Harold was concerned. John was up in an instant for a fierce, clumsy kiss, the hard press of Harold's glasses against his face, and the mingled groans of frustration as they each fought to control the dance.

Harold won. He always won because he always used John's need against him. Harold guided them both backward until he felt the wall at his back. He broke the kiss, long enough to remove his glasses, setting them safely aside for the moment. John's weakness was that he'd never admit how much he craved this, being the complete center and focus of Harold's attention.

Harold caught John at the hips and pulled their bodies together again, setting a slower pace this time, fitting John's hard cock alongside his own cotton boxer sheathed erection, plundering John's mouth with deep, deliberate kisses.

Over the past few weeks, John had come from kisses like this alone. Harold's throaty growls and sure touch over his skin made John ache and he rocked his hips forward, needing more. Harold dug his fingers into John's hips, stilling him.

“Not yet,” Harold said breathlessly, his lips swollen and moist. “I've got more in mind for tonight.”

John pulled away reluctantly. Harold caught his hand in his and led the way to the bed, the toys arranged on top of the bedside table catching his attention again.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked, releasing John, freeing him to make his selections. For his part, John had already made his choice when he was cleaning the toys. He picked up the open silicone lube, a lambskin condom, and the two smaller plugs.

“Very good,” Harold repeated, nodding appreciatively as John laid the items on the sheets. “And the cushion, did you try it? Is it comfortable?”

John immediately nodded, _Yes_. He pulled the angled pillows across the rumpled bedding and positioned them at the edge of the mattress. A beat later, John crossed the room in three long, sure strides and picked up Harold's wing back chair, bringing it over to the bedside.

“Let me see you,” Harold murmured, standing to the side of the chair, giving John room to arrange the pillows, the high end of the ramp facing the headboard, sloped towards Harold's chair. John visually measured the angle for a moment before placing the smaller cushion flush at the base of the large one. The effect, as he climbed onto the bed, resting his knees on the small wedge and stretched out, face down, up the length of the ramp, served to place him level with Harold, comfortably seated in the chair behind him.

Too late in, John realized that he couldn't see the mirrored closet doors from his position. He heard Harold drag the chair closer, the retreat of footsteps –Harold retrieving his glasses– then the rustle of Harold sitting, Harold's arm brushing over his tensed leg as he tugged the accessories closer.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked after a quiet moment, dragging his fingers along John's feet.

“No. Not like this, all of this.”

“All of what?” Harold traced his way over John's legs, prodding them open and leaning in between them.

Unable to see him, John could only imagine the sight that corresponded to the feel of Harold's hands dragging up the back of his thighs, the flex and grip of his strong fingertips on his ass.

“The attention to detail. The anticipation,” John answered in a husked voice.

“So, I see.” Harold ghosted his fingers down over John's balls and along the sensitive skin on the underside of John's hard cock. “I was anticipating this too. You have no idea the things I've imagined since that first afternoon in the library,” Harold said, flicking his thumb over John's cock head and spreading the slick in small circles around the slit. “You look beautiful like this, you know.”

John arched his back and fisted the foam as the heat of Harold's touch sent hard shivers through his body. Harold pulled away, following the creases of John's thighs and cupping his hands over his ass cheeks, kissing a meandering path across his skin.

“Tell me,” John whimpered, as hungry for the sound of Harold's voice as he was the adventurous mouth and firm hands that were now sweeping over his lower back.

“How you look? Spread open for me like this, hmm?” Harold dipped a thumb to John's exposed crack, tracing his way down slowly. “Like something dangerous and untamed, a big cat. Wary. You're still tense,” Harold hummed, his wet thumb pad fitted lighting against John's entrance. “Not tame, but you let me do this because it feels good. Because it's what you need.”

John didn't recognize the breathless moan in his ears as his own at first. Harold circled his thumb for a moment, then eased down to run it along the narrow divide to the base of his balls.

“What I needed too.”

Harold's breath was warm against his skin. John closed his eyes, drawing a picture of Harold leaned forward in his chair, nosing intimately between John's widespread legs. Of Harold, tongue cupped under his balls, swirling wet over the delicate skin, and finally, after the delicious torture, taking him into his warm, wet mouth. Harold held him loosely for a moment before reversing his path back to the cleft of John's ass and sweeping his tongue boldly over John's tight hole.

John lurched forward on the cushion. This time he had a benchmark, accustomed now to his own strange cries and groans as Harold lapped over him. He felt the soft drag of Harold's cotton undershirt against his inner thigh and visualized him, eyes closed because the glasses would have been discarded long ago, face screwed in concentration as he focused on John like John was one of his complex computer programs.

“That's it, John, relax for me,” Harold purred. “Let me in.” Teasing him, playing his pointed tongue over him until the tip slipped past the tight rings of muscle and he was inside, setting a steady rhythm of tiny thrusts as he delved deeper.

It was all heat and pressure to John now. He flopped down on the ramp. Breathed in the heavy mix of musk, sweat, and soap that filled the air. Harold had him spread open, claiming as his own absolutely everything John had to offer. Harold tongue fucked him with deep, jolting thrusts that made John's breath hitch and his knees buckle. Pre-come slicked his belly and John turned his analytic mind off. 

“Oh, that's perfect,” Harold said after a while, pulling off to catch his breath, replacing his tongue with his thumb when John groaned in protest. “You should see yourself like this, John. Next time. See yourself like I'm seeing you now.”

The cold of the lube rolling down his crack startled John and his body clamped down around Harold's thumb.

“Shh, it's okay. I'm just getting you ready for something bigger. Do you like that?” Harold asked as he pushed in, up to the base of his thumb before dragging free. Index finger this time, lubing him, pressing inside and exploring for a bit until he found John's prostate. “You do...”

John expelled a ragged breath as he pushed back onto Harold's finger. “More. Please.”

Harold pressed a gentle kiss to John's skin and slowly wormed a second finger into John's tight heat. “This was worth the wait, for me,” he said softly as he pressed in. “You make the most exquisite sounds, when you're on edge like this. Did you know that? Rapturous and fervent,” Harold whispered, punctuating the words with the slick twist and curl of his fingers. “You make this old man very happy, John.”

He said it like a secret, shared between them alone and the words touched John in a place he'd abandoned long ago.

“Are you ready for more? I think you are, hmm?”

John nodded weakly, boneless. “Yes.”

Harold slowly withdrew his fingers. In the absence of physical contact, John was left to attach his own meaning to the low rustling noises behind him. Then he caught a movement in his peripheral vision, Harold, out of the chair, coming around the side of the bed. John swallowed hard at the sight of him, his boxer shorts tented, and then, the rear view as Harold leaned forward to take a second look at the nightstand collection, the soft cotton clinging to his round bottom, his undershirt rucked up over the waistband. He made some selection from the stand, turned back, and caught John's intense gaze on him.

John lifted his head as Harold stepped close and pressed a kiss to his sweat slicked forehead. “We're almost there, John. You're doing very well,” he said, smiling down at him for a moment and then returned to his spot between John's wide spread legs.

“Harold?” John's voice was strained, his hips rocking against the cushion, desperate for Harold to get back to it.

“Yes?”

“You didn't have to go through all of this. You could have fucked me weeks ago.”

“True.”

“So, why didn't you?” An unfamiliar pleading edge to his voice.

“Because I'll only get one opportunity in life to do this for the first time. And, as you know, elaborate, over planning is kind of my thing.”

John's entire body flushed warm as he smiled against the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

John cradled his head in the crook of his arm, his eyes closed. The cushions were surprisingly comfortable, and not for the first time today, he gave silent thanks to Harold's exacting preparations and planning. The shift and dip of the mattress signaled to him that Harold was preparing for something new. Harold's hand skimming his cock a moment later confirmed it.

Lube, warmed this time, warmer still as Harold smoothed it around the base of his cock. He hummed softly, and John tried to pick out the melody, just narrowing it down to, _some opera_ when he felt the surprise snap and snug of Harold sliding on the cock ring. John's eyes flew open. He pushed up, looking down the length of his body, his sensitive tip grazing the pillow fabric, sending a charged jolt to his bound cock and balls.

“Is it too tight?” Harold's voice was closer. He was standing now, John decided.

“No,” John rasped as he slowly lowered himself back down on the cushion. The short break earlier had calmed his overstimulated body somewhat, but now, with the silicon ring secured solidly around him and holding his cock and balls stiff, John was reeling. “Finch. No more toys,” he spit out, ready for Harold to stop the teasing and get down to business.

“All things come to those that wait,” Harold answered, his voice catching.

There was another pause. John bucked against the cushion, letting out a low, throaty growl of frustration. Then, Harold's hands were on him again. Strong fingers smoothing the slippery lube over his hole, teasing inside, pushing inside, thrusting and stretching. Finger fucking him to a chorus of John's increasingly louder cries of, _More!_

“Now.” Harold blurted as he pulled his slick fingers free. “Turn over!”

It took a second for John to process the words. He pushed up to his knees, dropping a hand back down to the cushion almost immediately to steady himself. “How?” he asked, swallowing hard as he caught sight of Harold: naked now, face screwed in concentration and betraying the number of geometric calculations he was running at that very moment.

“Off,” he said at last, gesturing quickly with one hand, nodding. “Here,” Harold tapped his fingers on the small wedged shaped cushion. “On your back this time, your head here.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” John groaned, quickly scooting across the sheets and repositioning himself. This would work! He lay back, face up, head supported on the small cushion, body slightly inclined up the large ramp, legs dangling over the high end and his cock standing at an obscenely hard attention. Harold joined him on the bed, the lube in hand.

Harold was on his knees, fitting himself between John's thighs. He dropped the supplies on the mattress then caught John's long legs in his hands. “Scoot forward, just a hair – Yes, right there. The headrest, can you move it forward? Perfect.”

John readjusted himself in the new position. Harold watched, nodding appreciatively, sweeping his eyes down John's long body.

“Put your glasses on, Finch.”

“They'll just get fogged–” Harold broke off, an almost comically sweet grin turning his lips before he canted to the side and groped over the sheets for the frames. “Live dangerously,” he said, jamming on the glasses. Harold slowly dropped his hand from his temple, eyes wide behind the lens. “Oh.”

John tipped his head forward. Harold was still: knelt between his legs, thin condom stretched over his thick cock, and the largest ring from the set banded around his cock and balls. Harold rested his hands on John's thighs, his lips parted and his eyes blazing a slow path up John's body.

“You look magnificent,” Harold breathed.

“You too,” John opened his arms and without a further word, Harold leaned down into the kiss. John hooked his ankles together behind Harold's back and they melted together, skin on skin, lips and tongue, John tasting himself in Harold's mouth.

“Are you ready?” Harold asked softly, rolling his body slowly against John, his glasses fogged over.

“Yes,” John hissed, digging his fingers into Harold's hip. “Please.”

“Yes, yes,” Harold murmured as he smoothed his shaking hands down to John's hips.

John trembled under Harold's touch, breathing raggedly when Harold squeezed a generous dollop of lube into his hand and slicked it over his condom. The older man had gone quiet now, his skin flushed as he stroked himself with one hand. John raised a tentative hand to his own cock, focused on Harold, waiting for the slight nod of assent first before touching himself.

This, they'd done before, in exploration, each discovering the other's body and reaction. But, as John stroked his cock against Harold's, their fingers brushing together, John knew they'd never be content with just this again.

Harold dropped his hand down from his hard, thick length and back to John's hips. He held him down to the firm cushion and moved in, pressing his wide cock head against John's tight entrance. Slowly, gently, Harold drove himself inside.

“That's it,” John gasped, head thrown back, fingers clutching desperately at Harold's wrists. Inch by inch, Harold leaned forward, burying himself in John's heat. Blood rushed over John's eardrums, his entire body came alive at the feel of Harold pushing his way inside, deeper and thicker than any finger or toy ever could. Harold was filling him and John angled his hips back in order to take it all.

They rested like that for a long moment. John's legs cradling Harold above him, his tense body relaxing around him. Harold's belly resting against John's cock, his arms on either side of John's heaving chest as he supported his upper body.

The stuffed suit and tie Finch was gone, replaced by this Harold, this one that John only ever saw in these moments. Roused and ruffled, pale skin beaded with sweat, his hair mussed, and fogged glasses askew. John bit back a moan and the sweet words he longed to tell this Harold. He skimmed his hands up Harold's furred arms to his shoulders and guided him down for another deep, dizzy kiss.

Action louder than words. Harold pulled back and sank in again, hard and sure.

Short, shallow thrusts that made John quake as he opened up for Harold. The tempo shifted then, Harold's eyes fluttering shut as he teased his way out until only the fat head of his cock remained, then the long, fluid plunge back inside. In and out, back and forth, Harold fucked him with needy abandon and John urged him on with pleading moans, and the hard grip of his hands on Harold's body.

“John,” Harold groaned, buried balls deep inside of him.

“Don't hold back,” John rasped, clamping down as he ran his hand up Harold's dark furred chest. “Come for me, Finch.”

He felt Harold list and sway against him, the kick of his release as it rocked through Harold to him. The heat and slippery swell of the condom as Harold milked himself dry inside of John.

Time slowed down after that. Harold rolled his hips gently now, rutting through his seed. His slow hand brushing over John's chest, humming low in his throat as he circled the pebbled nipples. John reached up to cup Harold's jaw, dragging his thumb over his dry lips and the dewy moisture just above them.

Harold eased himself free, taking a moment to twist off the ruined lambskin sheath and toss it over the side of the bed. John grinned –some of that earlier rustling was Harold moving the wastebasket closer. The messy work done, Harold planted his damp palms against John's stomach and slowly lowered himself to take John into his mouth.

“Fuck, yes...” John arched his hips up, forgetting Harold's limitations for a moment, but as Harold kept going, using his position to control the depth, and his hands to steady John's hips, John realized that the cushion support was still holding strong.

He also realized that, for a man that didn't give blow jobs freely, Harold was sinfully good at the business. Lips tight, a hand cupping John's balls tenderly, Harold concentrated most of his effort just at the head and the taut, sensitive skin below it. Flicking and lapping his tongue, lazy swipes followed by soft kisses, and then Harold swallowing him down, wet and noisy.

It never took much, where Harold was concerned. John tugged at Harold's hair, choking out what warning he could, and it was enough. Harold closed his hot mouth over him, eyes slanted up to watch John's face as he hummed his encouragement for John to spill, and when John did, Harold took it all.

Time stopped completely for John when Harold raised his head again. Lips and chin glistening with John's come, Harold planted a sloppy kiss over John's heart.

At some point, after John's racing pulse slowed, after he remembered the basics of breathing in and out, John guided Harold down to the mattress and, pushing the cushions aside, lay down next to him. There was nothing to say, no words that could express more than Harold's gentle hand strokes through John's sweat damp hair, or the feel of Harold's hand in his as John intertwined their fingers.

In the morning, there would be a new number, and the morning after that. And inevitably, there would come a morning where one of them wouldn't be there to answer the call. But here, in this space, Harold and John had a life they could live.


End file.
